i was up before dawn -- not hard, since North Platte teeters on the western edge of Central Time Zone and sunrise is about 8 a.m. this time of year. Despite a forecast of near record-breaking 80-degree heat later in the day, it was 41 degrees at 6:30. Welcome to the high plains. I had an article to revise for publication and a stack of email to answer, so I declared Day 2 my official people-watching day and headed to the local coffee shop, reputed to be where locals gather downtown. And was it ever! The Espresso Shop had everything you can get at your local Starbucks, all delivered with an extra helping of Nebraska Nice. I ordered the biggest skim latte they had and settled down with my laptop, sneaking glances at the other customers. (I eavesdropped a little too, there was a discussion about the price of hay that eluded me completely.) the clientele was an interesting satorial mix -- work jeans and trucker hats, novelty t-shirts, some business casual. In my boot cut jeans, solid blue t-shirt and black cardigan, accessorized with a batik scarf, I actually felt a little overdressed. I was the only woman I saw all day wearing a decorative scarf. Who would have thought that I would be the snappiest dresser on Jeffers Street? Once I finished my work, I set out to walk around the old downtown, once so familiar and now so changed. The Pawnee Hotel, still the tallest building in town, sits empty and waiting for its next act. The Paramount Theater across the street is a hippie clothing store. The Fox Theater, where my brother and I watched Don Winslow of the Navy serials and cartoon marathons, is now home to the local amateur theater company. I may get a ticket to their next production just to get a look at the inside. Turning west, I saw a familiar bell tower a few blocks away -- my old spiritual home, the 1st Evangelical Lutheran Church. In the building, I was struck with so many odd memories. The round posts in the parish hall were still there -- of course! They have to hold up the building; but they also were good for twirling around when cover dish suppers got too boring. I went upstairs to the sanctuary and it was all the same, except the carpet, which couldn't possibly be the original. How many Sundays did I sit looking at these very same stained glass windows? The hymns were still posted on the board, so I looked them up. The second two were after my time and unfamiliar, but the first was "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling" set to the tune Hyfrydol. The melody is a favorite of mine, even more so now that Peter Mayer has written the beautiful words of "Blue Boat Home" for this sweet old tune. This Sunday is Reformation Sunday, a very big deal in the denomination that traces its history to a firebrand monk nailing his 95 theses to the door of the church. I am planning to go, probably attending the 8:30 a.m. "traditional" service, and staying for coffee and donuts afterwards (of course!) On the way out, I also bought a ticket for the Harvest Dinner next week. Hope they don't hold it against me that I drifted away from the Trinity and became a Unitarian Universalist. I'd like to believe that a modern Luther would also have a quibble or two with church doctrine, and would add a few more theses to his very long list.
The drive from Denver was beautiful. I know that people who live elsewhere think of this part of the country as flat, empty, and boring. But here's what I thought: Vanishing Point I moseyed along my way, stopping to visit the church in Brush, Colorado, where my grandfather served as pastor eighty or so years ago. The current pastor and church secretary were warm and welcoming, and shared some of the parish's history with me. Finally, I made it to North Platte. The road into town was unrecognizable; lots of chain restaurants, a WalMart, a shopping mall. But soon I was driving through the old part of town, and over the viaduct that carries the Main Street across the railroad tracks. Within minutes, I was driving into Cody Park, past the swimming pool and the kiddie rides (closed for the season) and reaching the banks of the North Platte River. The familiar sights and smells, the grasshoppers leaping away from my footsteps, all brought tears to my eyes. A fellow about my age stopped to talk -- the first of many conversations I have had in my few hours here. And therein hangs a tale. I think of myself as an introvert, someone who is usually reluctant to chat with strangers. But the genial neighborliness I have encountered here has triggered a memory of learning to look away from strangers instead of smiling at them, to nod instead of saying hi. I remember walking down the street in Westwood, New Jersey shortly after we moved there, and saying hello to a woman only to have her look at me with a startled expresssion that clicked quickly to annoyance and then to a mask, averted away from me. So far today, I have had short conversations with:
The flight from Washington, D.C. To Denver was as pleasant as air travel in 2016 can be for a 5' 9" human. The skies over most of Nebraska were clear enough that I could follow the Platte River westward from Omaha, but not quite to North Platte. Rather than do the whole trip in one day, I opted to pick up my rental car, stay overnight at an airport hotel, and drive the 3 1/2 hours this morning.
Last night I had dinner with a former student, Wayne Watts (aka DK). Wayne was one of my star pupils in a service learning course I team taught about a decade ago. It was, by far the riskiest, more challenging, scariest course I ever taught--and the most rewarding. The title was Popular Culture and Literacy in America, and I will confess right now that I put "popular culture" in the title -- to recruit unsuspecting students into a service learning course where they would tutor students at a large, minority-majority high school. If I had given it a more straightforward title, I would have been preaching to the choir. We let them know the first day of class what we would be doing, so they had the chance to find another course if they wanted. When I say "team taught", I am not kidding. The course was planned, steered and assessed by myself, a PhD student, and a team of undergraduate teaching assistants who met at my house every week for debriefing and planning. Wayne took the class as a student once, and then served as a teaching assistant for several more semesters. Since graduation, he has pursued two passions: his musical career and mentoring. For him, they are deeply connected; he takes them both equally seriously and uses one to enhance the other. Right now, in addition to his performing gigs, he is running an after school tutoring and mentoring program very much like the one in our course, but much bigger, with multiple locations, and a cadre of mentors who are not students, but older adults who need training and support to connect with their young students. He is also developing a program of online mentoring podcasts and interviews that is simply brilliant. See more about this impressive young man on his website: http://www.dkakawaynewatts.com/about-dk. This has nothing to do with my Nebraska trip, at first glance. But I found myself wondering, as we spoke and laughed last night, what life would have been like for me without the many direct experiences I have had with people of other races. More to come, as I think of it. I'm off! And as I rode the Washington, DC Metro to Reagan National Airport, I couldn't avoid noticing the people around me, and their amazing diversity. This is my world on a daily basis, and has been since we moved here in 1976. (If anything, it has become more varied in forty years.) There were men and women of all races in business suits and track suits. There were women in hijabs, and men with waist length dreadlocks. Piercings galore. It being a chilly fall morning, there were no visible tattoos, but I know there was at least one -- mine.
Both places are predominantly white, but the similarity ends there.
University Park is "78.5% White, 9.3% African American, 0.1% Native American, 4.7% Asian, 3.0% from other races, and 4.4% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 11.3% of the population. North Platte is 93.1% White, 1.0% African American, 0.7% Native American, 0.7% Asian, 2.8% from other races, and 1.7% from two or more races. Hispanic or Latino of any race were 8.8% of the population." Outside of University Park, our county is "majority minority" ("64.5% black or African American, 19.2% white, 4.1% Asian, 0.5% American Indian, 0.1% Pacific islander, 8.5% from other races, and 3.2% from two or more races. Those of Hispanic or Latino origin made up 14.9% of the population.") Lincoln County, of which North Platte is the seat, has about the same demographic mix as the city, and a total population of about 34,000. Let that sink in. There are about 10,000 people in the county who live outside North Platte. Prince George's County, home to University Park, has over 800,000 people, including my 2,500 neighbors. So that's a rough snapshot of where I am coming from, and where I am going. So it is time to pack. After decades of conferences, I normally have this down to a science. It's a short list: one pair black conference trousers, one pair of jeans, and enough solid-color tops to last the duration, plus a light cardigan for layering, and a small assortment of colorful accessories. Add a tailored jacket, and I am set. But this is not a conference, and I will be away for nearly a month. I will be among strangers who used to be classmates nearly 60 years ago, and I want to make a good impression, but still be myself. I am not trying to blend in or pretend to be someone I am not. I have no idea what activities I will be doing. (Can I join the yoga class at the Methodist church?)
Add to this my three degrees in clothing and a career teaching and writing about fashion, which makes me well-aware of the role of dress in forming first impressions. So I am thinking, rethinking and -- probably -- overthinking. Are the red Mary Janes with the cutouts too hippie? Do 67-year old women in North Platte wear jeans as much as I do? Do I pack my black skinny jeans? I will post my packing list once I get this worked out. UPDATE: Ixnay on the innyskay eansjay. I don't wear them that often. Traded the winter jacket for the just-as-warm but more packable layers of silk undershirt, thrift store cashmeres, and fleece vest. No yoga clothes. Who am I kidding? Other than it, it's my conference wardrobe, plus a pair of corduroy trousers. And yes, yes, YES to the re Mary Janes with the cutouts. Additional update: A friend who is originally from Omaha convinced me to take the yoga pants. And now, for something completely different.
They say you can't go home again. But I'm going to try. For most of my childhood and my early adult life I was homesick for North Platte. That's North Platte Nebraska, slightly west of the center of the state. Sitting on the High Plains 3000 feet above sea level on what was once the undulating floor of an ancient ocean, bisected by the Union Pacific mainline, it's home to about 25,000 people. It was once home to Buffalo Bill Cody. It was also my home from my first birthday until one day in late September, 1957, when our '49 Chevy pulled away from 310 South Willow and headed east on Highway 30. We were headed to a new home and a new life in the New Jersey suburbs of New York City. I think of it as moving from the Little House on the Prairie to Mad Men; the culture shock was awful. For the next few years, I would lie in my bed in my darkened bedroom and cry, praying fervently that when I woke up it would be a dream like in the Wizard of Oz and I would be back in North Platte with all my friends. It never happened. When I was 12, we moved again, to Connecticut. Another small town and once again, the new kid in school. Living there, but never really at home. I fantasized about going to Midland College in Fremont, Nebraska where I was born while my father had gone to school on the G.I. Bill. But instead, I went to Syracuse University, fell in love, and lived my life, year-by-year, moving from upstate New York, to Rhode Island, and finally Maryland. This has been my home for forty years, yet when people ask, I still say I am from Nebraska. Is been 59 years since I left North Platte. The eight-year-old has grown up and is growing older. I am wondering what would have it been like to stay in North Platte? Who would I be? What part of me really comes from there? So on Tuesday, I fly halfway across the country, rent a pick up a rental car in Denver, and drive home to North Platte. Not home forever, but home for 3 1/2 weeks. I have no idea what I'll find...or who. Stay tuned. |
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